Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Your Perfect Life
"We have to keep this up for a full fucking year?" Stitches practically yelled.
"Maybe less, maybe more." Andy said, plopping his skinny ass on the couch in the living room.
"Not good enough." The other man said, grabbing the singer by the throat, squeezing.
Infuriated, he shoved the aggravating parrot off, gasping for air, before snapping, "We give a trial run of a year. She fucks up badly enough, everything goes back to normal. She starts getting better, it stays how we fixed it."
"Kill me now." Stitches grumbled.
Andy rolled his eyes in response. Who the hell came up with this bright idea, he had no idea. And, he actually wanted to work with someone who wasn't completely bitchy, and unwilling to cooperate.
Inside the room, the girl was waking up. "Huh?" She mumbled, sitting up in bed. Last she remembered was sitting on the floor, surrounded by bottles of pulls and booze and a suicide note. That'd explain her headache.
"Holy shit.... Am I dead?" She asked aloud to no one in particular. She had been waiting for last night for nearly a year, and she was dead serious about it. But as she looked around, she saw no evidence of the night before. Instead, however, she found a note taped to her mirror.
Stumbling out of bed, she yanked it off the shiny glass surface. It took her several minutes in her severely hung over state to decipher the squiggly writing.
"They fixed everything in your life, except you. It's up to you to fix yourself. They've done this a thousand times before, and every time, the person never gets better, and always asked for more and more. They believe you're going to be the same. You probably will, but they're giving you a chance anyways. Fuck up too much and it's going to go back the way it was.
P.S. I'm expecting you to be that one in a million case where the person gets better and doesn't keep demanding more. I made a bet with these fucking overgrown birds, and you better make sure that I win it." It read.
There was no signature to it. The girl shuddered. It was certainly fucking cryptic.
Mumbling something to herself, she dropped the note and grabbed a towel before stumbling into the bathroom. A hot shower should wake her up. As she stood under the scalding water, something came to the forefront of her groggy mind that worried her. What if this was a prank to make her get her hopes up? What if she was actually dead and was now in purgatory? But the thing that bugged her the most was that she had never seen the handwriting before. Who had been in her room, and what had they done?
After her shower, she headed back to her room. Before she shut the door, she smelled something. Breakfast. Toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee. Who the hell actually cooked breakfast in the house within the last 4 years? No one besides her. So who the hell was cooking it now?
Seeing her leave the bathroom, Andy turned to Stitches, and said, "Showtime."
"Maybe less, maybe more." Andy said, plopping his skinny ass on the couch in the living room.
"Not good enough." The other man said, grabbing the singer by the throat, squeezing.
Infuriated, he shoved the aggravating parrot off, gasping for air, before snapping, "We give a trial run of a year. She fucks up badly enough, everything goes back to normal. She starts getting better, it stays how we fixed it."
"Kill me now." Stitches grumbled.
Andy rolled his eyes in response. Who the hell came up with this bright idea, he had no idea. And, he actually wanted to work with someone who wasn't completely bitchy, and unwilling to cooperate.
Inside the room, the girl was waking up. "Huh?" She mumbled, sitting up in bed. Last she remembered was sitting on the floor, surrounded by bottles of pulls and booze and a suicide note. That'd explain her headache.
"Holy shit.... Am I dead?" She asked aloud to no one in particular. She had been waiting for last night for nearly a year, and she was dead serious about it. But as she looked around, she saw no evidence of the night before. Instead, however, she found a note taped to her mirror.
Stumbling out of bed, she yanked it off the shiny glass surface. It took her several minutes in her severely hung over state to decipher the squiggly writing.
"They fixed everything in your life, except you. It's up to you to fix yourself. They've done this a thousand times before, and every time, the person never gets better, and always asked for more and more. They believe you're going to be the same. You probably will, but they're giving you a chance anyways. Fuck up too much and it's going to go back the way it was.
P.S. I'm expecting you to be that one in a million case where the person gets better and doesn't keep demanding more. I made a bet with these fucking overgrown birds, and you better make sure that I win it." It read.
There was no signature to it. The girl shuddered. It was certainly fucking cryptic.
Mumbling something to herself, she dropped the note and grabbed a towel before stumbling into the bathroom. A hot shower should wake her up. As she stood under the scalding water, something came to the forefront of her groggy mind that worried her. What if this was a prank to make her get her hopes up? What if she was actually dead and was now in purgatory? But the thing that bugged her the most was that she had never seen the handwriting before. Who had been in her room, and what had they done?
After her shower, she headed back to her room. Before she shut the door, she smelled something. Breakfast. Toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee. Who the hell actually cooked breakfast in the house within the last 4 years? No one besides her. So who the hell was cooking it now?
Seeing her leave the bathroom, Andy turned to Stitches, and said, "Showtime."
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